The Ice Planet Hoth
by Tinhen
Summary: He was a walking, singing, crimefighting distraction. But, she remembered with a secret smile, watching him dig though a box for more tinsel, he was her walking, singing, crimefighting distraction. PreBeastie SaraGreg fluff.


**The Ice Planet Hoth**

**Summary**: He was a walking, singing, crime-fighting distraction. But, she remembered with a secret smile, watching him dig though a box for more tinsel, he was _her_ walking, singing, crime-fighting distraction. Pre-Beastie SaraGreg.

**Disclaimer**: This is me not owning CSI or anyone affiliated with it. Yeah.

**Note**: Okay, so this starts out seasonal and then goes awry in the Star Wars kind of way and I'm not sure how that happened. I'm a geek, what can I say? In fact, this fic almost seems like I took the beginning of one and the end of another, completely different one and mashed them together.

I was asked by a few people in various reviews for my other CSI-verse fics, and yes, most of them (the exception being "The Persistence of Memory" and "Fait Accompli" and anything with multiple chapters) do fit into the same timeline. They're telling the same story over a course of years, disjointedly. This, for example, is pre-Audrey but definitely in the Beastie-verse.

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**The Ice Planet Hoth**

Sara was probably the last person to notice the change in Greg from the previous two years. The gloomy, Thomas Hardy character he'd been since moving out of the lab had dissolved away. Nobody disputed that Christmas was his favorite time of year. This was not the issue, even the last couple of years, when he flattened his hair and started wearing sane clothing and some large chunk of him died. But this year the old, happy Greg was back, and Sara was the last to notice. Then again, she hadn't been in the field since Halloween, which was apparently about the time he started wearing Christmas decorations to crime scenes.

He wore reindeer headbands or Santa hats, something that she was sure the higher powers were aware of and simply didn't care, and he was constantly humming some carol or other while he worked. He was a walking, singing, crime-fighting distraction. But, she remembered with a secret smile, watching him dig though a box of God-knows-what for more tinsel, he was _her_ walking, singing, crime-fighting distraction, and she had the swollen feet and the lack of a view of them to prove it. Well, for the time being. In a very short amount of time, she'd have a squalling, unhappy eating machine to worry about and no work to distract her. At that grim thought, she put her head down in her hands and sighed.

"Hey," he said in a voice that struck her as being way too cheerful, but then again, he wasn't the one suffering from a chronic backache and wicked water retention. She glowered up at him from her cozy spot on his couch. His back was to her; the glare was for naught. "Just remember, we won't be able to have a proper tree next year, 'cause she'll be mobile by then." He turned around long enough to grin at her, totally missing the look on her face. He was too busy being glowy at the prospect of Christmas coming, too busy trimming the massive tree he'd insisted on getting. And leave it to him to completely misinterpret her sigh. "I don't want our house turning into a crime scene because the baby managed to pull the tree down on top of herself."

"Somehow I doubt a ten-month-old would have the dexterity to do that," she deadpanned.

He turned and gave her a hurt look. "Don't make me call you Hodges," he threatened, looking completely unthreatening with a length of red tinsel in one hand and the other planted on his hip. She supposed that if the shiny stuff hadn't been so obviously limp, he might have shaken it at her. And she supposed that if she hadn't felt uncomfortably bloaty from the Chinese they'd ordered in (the water chestnuts, most likely), she would have laughed at him. "And anyway, she'll be eleven months."

He turned back to the tree that took up a good third of what used to be her Spartan living room, once upon a time. He'd commandeered her TV and she found herself watching Han Solo butchering the bipedal space horse to save Luke's life. As for his take-over of the rest of her living room, she couldn't even find half of her furniture under all the decorations or boxes for the storing thereof. She wasn't entirely sure where he kept it all in the off season, but supposed that she would find out next year when she wasn't so pregnant and useless.

She smiled to herself and rested her hands on the swell of her abdomen, trying to imagine what it would be like this time next year, when she was back in her skinny jeans and there was a wailing, needy baby to gobble up all of her attention. She wondered if he'd considered that fact yet. She knew he couldn't wait for the baby, but she was apprehensive. She'd almost had an abortion, but she had hesitated because three in one lifetime seemed two too many, and then he had guessed something had gone awry in her life before she got around to scheduling the appointment. And by then it was too late anyway and she was stuck with her lot. Months later, she was still nervous, but she'd be a liar and a half if she claimed she wasn't just a little excited.

"My team'll be over after shift," he said, voice muffled by pine boughs as he dived into the tree to adjust the end of a strand of tinsel. "Catherine doesn't believe you're as round as you look in the pictures."

She moved to the edge of the couch and glared at him. "I look like a beach ball," she said with a scoff. "And not just the... belly. The whole package." She made a rather wild gesture that spanned her, head to mid-shin. Her feet weren't worth thinking about.

He extricated himself from the tree and squatted down in front of her. "I don't mind," he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. She smiled in spite of herself. There was a bit of silver tinsel stuck in his hair. When he pulled back, he added, "and anyway, you don't wear nearly bright enough colors to look anything like a beach ball."

After giving him a withering look and making him giggle, she glanced over at the television. "How many times have you seen this movie, again?" she asked.

He spared Princess Leia a glance and then turned a bashful smile back to her. "Just this one or the series all together?"

"Just this one. We're not going into the whole thing."

He shrugged, standing up, stretching his spine, and then plopping down on the couch beside her. He pointed at the screen. "This is the only one worth watching from a real cinematic point of view, 'cause, if you really think about it, the rest of them really are crap. Especially the new ones. And _Return of the Jedi._" He stopped and shuddered. "And I liked the damn Ewoks."

"Greg, nobody liked the Ewoks," she pointed out. "They're annoying and actually kind of scary. I remember seeing it in the theater and being absolutely terrified of the little things." Probably thirty seconds passed with no response from Greg. She looked at him concernedly, but he seemed to be staring at a spot on the wall above the TV but below the St. Lucia wreath he'd insisted had to go exactly there (and she insisted was a fire hazard), bobbing his head and moving his lips.

Then he smiled and snapped out of it. "Yeah, I've probably seen this one eighty-four times. Give or take."

She stared at him, not quite sure she'd heard him right. "What would possess _anyone_ to watch a George Lucas movie that many times?"

"I've seen the first one a hundred and six times!" he said, not helping his case. "And anyway, you look sort of like Carrie Fisher." Carrie Fisher who was telling Han she loved him on the screen just then. Then Greg turned to her with a very evil smile. "And then there's Jabba the Hut."

Surprised that he would even go there in her state, she crossed her arms over her chest and turned away from him. "We are not discussing Jabba the Hut for another two months," she snapped.

He grinned and looped an arm around her shoulders, bringing her flush against him. She made a call of protest but snuggled into his side. "Don't worry," he said, toying with her hair. "Jabba the Hut's got nothing on you, Beach Ball."

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Dedicated to OU's Scripps Journalism school, who so gallantly offered me admission today. Yes!

Tinhen / Begun 15 November, Finished 21 December, 2005.


End file.
